The 1979 BART tunnel fire nightmare: 5 minutes from 'catastrophe'

The scorched shells of two fire-damaged BART cars from train No. 117 are pulled out of the Transbay Tunnel on Jan. 18, 1979, a day after it caught fire about a mile from the tunnel's eastern entrance.

The scorched shells of two fire-damaged BART cars from train No. 117 are pulled out of the Transbay Tunnel on Jan. 18, 1979, a day after it caught fire about a mile from the tunnel's eastern entrance.

Photo: Art Frisch, The Chronicle

Photo: Art Frisch, The Chronicle

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The scorched shells of two fire-damaged BART cars from train No. 117 are pulled out of the Transbay Tunnel on Jan. 18, 1979, a day after it caught fire about a mile from the tunnel's eastern entrance.

The scorched shells of two fire-damaged BART cars from train No. 117 are pulled out of the Transbay Tunnel on Jan. 18, 1979, a day after it caught fire about a mile from the tunnel's eastern entrance.

Photo: Art Frisch, The Chronicle

The 1979 BART tunnel fire nightmare: 5 minutes from 'catastrophe'

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"It's not like anything else, it's completely different. You're underwater. There's no windows you can break out to get air. That tunnel has always seemed like a weird, dangerous place, off to one side, and some day you'd have to face it."

During the afternoon commute on a January day in 1979, an aluminum switch box cover about the size of a serving tray broke off of a Daly City-bound Bay Area Rapid Transit train speeding through the Transbay Tunnel.

As it fell, it banged against the train car and rebounded off the 1,000-volt third rail and insulators. Passengers later reported seeing flashes of light.

The train, No. 363, stopped briefly and then continued on to its destination. A sweep train was sent to check out the accident, but in an inspection that lasted just 10 minutes, the on-board engineer found nothing wrong with the tunnel track and apparently did not notice the switch cover. That would prove to have fateful consequences.

An hour and half later, the damage caused by the rectangular slab of metal would set off a series of events leading to the worst train accident in the tunnel's history. The resulting fire trapped 40 terrified passengers in toxic black smoke that sickened them and impeded their rescue. One firefighter died.

Oakland Fire Capt. Robert Coombs would later say that if his rescue unit had arrived at the scene three to five minutes later, there would have been multiple fatalities.

"We would have had a major catastrophe," Coombs said. "We would have lost them (the passengers)."

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The Transbay Tunnel comprises three independent concrete tubes, each 3.6 miles long, lying side by side as much as 136 feet below the surface of San Francisco Bay. The two train bores are separated by a pedestrian gallery to allow maintenance workers and rescuers access. Each train bore is single-track and has a narrow (2.5 feet wide) walkway adjacent to the gallery. The fire on Jan. 17, 1979, occurred about roughly a mile from the tunnel's eastern entrance.

Nine westbound trains pass through the tunnel before the seven-car No. 117 departs Oakland West station at 6:00 p.m. with 40 passengers, an operator and by chance, BART line supervisor Paul Gravelle, aboard.

6:05 p.m.

At the same place where the No. 363 train was damaged, No. 117 hits something repeatedly — either the switch cover or damage on the third rail. The train's contact shoe, which slides along the third rail drawing power, snaps and begins showering sparks as it clatters against the rail, igniting a fire. The racket is interrupted by the sound of air suspension bags and air tanks exploding.

An emergency brake application is triggered, stopping the train.

The bursting of the air suspension bags causes the cars to sink onto the track and allows flames to enter the last car. The coach's polyurethane seats begin to burn. Burning polyurethane foam is especially dangerous because it creates highly toxic hydrogen compounds, including hydrogen cyanide. Dense smoke begins to fill the bore.

6:06 p.m.

The train's operator radios BART central control to report the emergency stop and "a bad overload and fire."

6:08-6:09 p.m.

BART begins ventilating the bore via fans 500 feet ahead of the train. With smoke now filling the train, Gravelle and the operator herd the passengers, including one who is blind, away from the fire and crowd everyone into the lead car so it can be separated from the rest of the train and continue on its way under manual operation. But when Gravelle tries to uncouple the lead car (and other cars), a reverse lever keeps tripping, preventing it.

6:15 p.m.

BART central tells Gravelle and the engineer that it will shut off third-rail power and they should evacuate the passengers. But the supervisor replies that the smoke is too thick. They are trapped in the burning train.

6:15-6:21 p.m.

Misinformation and general confusion delays Oakland Fire Department's response to BART central's call for assistance, but eventually nine Oakland firefighters under the command of Assistant Chief Robert McGue and supported by two BART police officers, board another train, No. 900, to respond to the fire on No. 117. When they arrive at the scene, the firefighters find the last car of No. 117 spewing flames and smoke. The smoke in the bore is so noxious that even though they are equipped with 30-minute oxygen masks, they have to bypass it by entering the pedestrian gallery, which is clear of fumes, and run 333 feet to the next door.

Seven of the firefighters and one of the policemen reach the front of No. 117, leaving a gallery door open for their comrades. But the other two firefighters and the second BART officer are forced to retreat to the rescue train by thick smoke wafting into the gallery. The policeman leaves a second gallery door open as he returns to the train.

The failure to close the doors would soon place another team of firefighters in grave danger.

6:23-6:59 p.m.

The second team, two squads with nine firefighters in total, enter the tunnel via the easternmost ventilation shaft to make their way to the fire on foot through the gallery.

Meanwhile, the seven firefighters and one policeman from the rescue train help the passengers out of No. 117. Some of the passengers begin to panic, screaming "Get me out of here" and "I can't make it." The firemen occasionally stop to share their oxygen with wheezing passengers, but doing so slows the rescue.

Four or five passengers, frozen with fear, refuse to get off the burning train. Firefighters forcibly remove them from the car to save them.

Amid choking smoke and near darkness, the passengers follow a handrail to a door to the gallery and cross to the other tunnel bore where No. 111, a crowded train from San Francisco commandeered for the rescue, is waiting to aid with the evacuation.

After all are safely boarded on No. 111, the train quickly accelerates to 80 mph in order to rush the injured passengers to medical treatment as soon as possible. The suction created by the departing cars is so strong, it knocks several firefighters off their feet.

It also draws more smoke through the open doors into the gallery where the two squads of firefighters on foot are advancing.

6:45 p.m.

Lt. Wayne Schuette, commander of one of the squads, checks his watch amid increasingly thick smoke. He and Lt. Bill Elliot, the other squad leader, order their men to don their oxygen masks and keep moving until they reach the train. If they don't find it within 15 minutes, they are told to turn back.

The men have no idea that the doors opened in the gallery to aid the rescue operation are allowing smoke to move into the gallery at a much faster speed than they are moving.

Within a few minutes, it becomes so dark that visibility is less than two feet even with hand lights. The firefighters drag their hands against the wall to orient themselves, but begin to bump into fixtures and other obstructions, and into each other. Some of the men become separated in smoke.

When Elliot struggles with oxygen supply, firefighter Chris Heath comes to his aid and shares his air with the lieutenant until neither has any left. Heath gets up and moves forward, but collapses after a short distance. Soon almost all of the firefighters are out of oxygen or close to it.

7:09 p.m.

Schuette tries a phone box, but no one answers his call. He plugs his handset into a jack by the phone and reaches Battalion Chief George W. Gray on a communications circuit.

"The walkway all the way down is charged with smoke. We're stranded down here. We don't have any air," Schuette tells his commander.

Disoriented and near panic, the men desperately try to escape the lethal smoke.

"You're crawling on your hands and knees and the smoke is black, black... you can't see," firefighter Jack Doan would later tell the Chronicle. "...You want air and you throw up ... you know your air is going, and you know — from out of nowhere — suddenly you just know that you might die...

"Somewhere out in front of me — or maybe behind me — I could hear voices. They were muffled, like moans. They didn't sound human. But they were human. They were people I know."

Gary Gerner, another one of the firefighters, remembers the confusion.

"When we first entered the gallery the air was clear," the 80-year-old San Ramon retiree recalls. "As we got farther in, there was light smoke, but then it became thick. It was pitch black — you couldn't see anything even with your lantern on."

In the smothering smoke, the firefighters become separated from their "golf cart," a supply cart that carried extra oxygen tanks.

Gerner runs out of air and is about to ditch his tank when he hears firefighter George Kastanos yell out. Kastanos had opened one of the bore doors and found the air relatively clear of smoke — the opposite of what the crew had expected.

Gerner goes through the door, flips off his mask and takes a deep breath. He then rushes back into the gallery to assist his stricken comrades. He goes back for another breath and then returns to find firefighter David Chew trying to revive Heath. The men are able to lead their fallen comrade out of the gallery and into the bore.

After other firefighters pull Elliot out of the gallery, Gerner performs CPR on his crew chief, who is fighting for his life. But Gerner is also suffering from smoke inhalation and has to stop. He and another firefighter make their way back through the tunnel toward Oakland to get medical attention. It would take six months for Gerner's injured lungs to recover.

Reinforcements from the firefighters' rescue train and San Francisco Fire Department, the latter who have come part of the way by train and the rest on foot, begin to arrive at the scene and administer first aid to the Oakland crew, some of whom are prostrate and covered in soot. A couple have stopped breathing.

7:48 p.m.

Eventually every Oakland firefighter is accounted for. A train is dispatched from Oakland to pick up the injured men.

8:10 p.m.

Despite administering CPR, the firefighters can't save Elliot. He dies shortly after arriving at a hospital. The cause of death is smoke inhalation and cyanide poisoning.

The firefighters who had arrived from San Francisco couldn't begin dousing the fire for 45 minutes because of fears that the third-rail power had not been completely shut off. The heat of the blaze was so intense that pieces of concrete ceiling weighing up to 40 pounds each broke off and dropped into the burning cars.

After the firemen were given the go-ahead, it took them three and a half hours to bring the fire under control at 1:31 a.m.

The California Public Utilities Commission immediately closed down the Transbay Tube and began an investigation. The tube would remain shut for 11 weeks.

The accident resulted in new safety requirements and protocols drawn up by San Francisco and Oakland fire chiefs. The 30-minute-maximum oxygen tanks used by OFD were deemed inadequate for fighting tunnel fires and faulted for not having low-reserve alarms. They were replaced with new tanks — four-hour, closed-circuit units costing $2,300 each — paid for by BART.

All BART car seats were re-upholstered to replace the polyurethane covers and foam that emit deadly toxins when they burn. The cost was $118,000 ($408,000 today).

Jack Doan, who thought he might die in the tunnel that day in 1979, lived for another 30 years. The 82-year-old ex-firefighter passed away at his home in Sonora in 2009.